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Walking along a quiet Tokyo lane lined with low-key apartments, I suddenly spot a sight as surreal as it is unexpected. A vast abstract jigsaw puzzle of thousands of crisscrossed wooden slats rises from the pavement – a cross between an oversized bird’s nest and an about-to-tumble game of Jenga.

Stepping inside the plant-filled interior is no less extraordinary. Fractured shafts of light illuminate countless angular timber slates interlocked with such stability that there is not a single nail. Even more surprising than the fact it hasn’t fallen down is its purpose: in true abstract Tokyo style, this contemporary space is not a modern art gallery or a company HQ: it’s a pineapple cake shop. Of course it is.

Such architectural inventiveness is currently being showcased at London’s Barbican Centre, in the exhibition The Japanese House: Architecture and Life after 1945. Nowhere is it more evident than in Tokyo, an architectural riddle of a city. Just hearing the name of the Japanese megalopolis calls to mind instant images of cloud-brushing skyscrapers and flashing neon billboards.

Tokyo's shape-shifting skyline Credit:
ALAMY

Yet it doesn’t take long to realise that the city’s architectural landscape is as chaotically eclectic as its society is efficient. Rising above throngs of salarymen and subterranean stations are anonymous office towers, gaudy Eighties apartment blocks and hi-tech skyscrapers – while just around the corner are quiet lanes lined with traditional wooden houses and Shinto shrines with red torii gates.

It is a city deeply imbued with a sense of transience, perhaps a legacy of its long history of natural disasters (Tokyo stands on a major earthquake fault line). The skyline changes with hyperactive regularity as buildings go up and down like yo-yos – a trait currently amplified in the run up to the 2020 Summer Olympics.

And then there are its small homes. Tokyo’s rapid-fire post-war urban growth – and its tightly packed population (13.6 million at last count) – has resulted in the evolution of a city that excels at creating (and harmoniously coexisting in) the tiniest of spaces.

Visitors to the Barbican exhibition will get a good sense of this creativity, but I want to appreciate it in situ – which is why I find myself signing up for a guided walk to explore at first hand the buildings that make up one of the most densely-packed cities on Earth.

The decorative facade of the Kabuki-za theatreCredit:
ALAMY

My architectural tour – one of a string of bespoke cultural packages for guests at the Palace Hotel Tokyo – begins on a sunny winter morning outside one of the city’s less lauded architectural landmarks: Starbucks. It is here, not far from the fashion boutiques of Aoyama, that I meet with my guide Darryl Jingwen Wee, a friendly young architecture expert from Singapore with an encyclopaedic knowledge of Tokyo’s cityscape.

Our first stop is minutes away on foot – the 1991 Doric Building, a grand seven-storey European-style office and shop building that brings to mind an old school bank, with its stone columns and tall windows.

My first surprise of the day is learning that it was built by Kengo Kuma, an iconic Japanese architect whose signature style today could not be more different: he is synonymous with a clean-lined, minimal and contemporary take on traditional Japanese architecture using natural materials such as paper and bamboo (he is currently building a new National Stadium for the 2020 Olympics – out of wood).

Smiling at my reaction, Darryl explains: “Many people don’t know that Kengo Kuma went through a very pastiche postmodern phase. Then, in the mid Nineties, he met a traditional craftsman who really influenced him and led him to rediscover his Japanese artisanal roots and a respect for materials. It was an 180-degree shift in his style.”

Moving on past crowds of office workers and well-dressed shoppers, we reach the distinct Liquorice Allsorts-style black and white striped Watari-Um Museum, designed by Swiss architect Mario Botta. Darryl, however, turns his back on the contemporary art museum – and, instead points out something on the opposite side of the road: a narrow, angular concrete structure wedged discreetly on a tiny triangular plot between two taller buildings.

The skyline changes with hyperactive regularity as buildings go up and down like yo-yos

This, it transpires, is Tower House, a seminal example of Tokyo’s ability to build homes on very small plots of land – a legacy of post-war Tokyo’s soaring demand for high-density housing in a rapidly expanding city.

The architectural influence of the property – built by Takamitsu Azuma in 1966 – lives on today, as reflected in the fact a model of the house appears in the new Barbican exhibition.

Standing less than 10 metres tall on a compact plot of land, the structure spans six levels, complete with a timelessly modern raw concrete facade, with narrow slashes of windows on one side and glass walls at the rear.

“Architectural movements in the Sixties and Seventies were concerned about post-war reconstruction and high-density housing,” explains Darryl, as we creep around the exterior, hoping the neighbours don’t mistake us for potential intruders.

“This house has a small footprint and is very innovative in terms of space inside. Despite its dimensions, it doesn’t feel oppressive. It’s an example of how to build a home in a dense city.”

Our city architecture fix continues with a stroll towards nearby Omotesando, a wide boulevard lined with architect-designed fashion flagships – from the stacked glass façade of Louis Vuitton designed by Jun Aoki to the curved bubble-like structure of the Herzog & De Meuron-designed Prada building.

As we walk, Darryl surprises me with facts. “Twenty-six years,” he declares. “Just 26 years. That’s the average lifespan of a Tokyo building. As a result, there are fewer historical landmarks in Tokyo. In places like Kyoto, there are more traditional buildings, but everything that is really vital in Tokyo is so because of its newness and its sense of change. The environment here transforms constantly to make way for the future.”

The next few hours pass in a leisurely mix of city strolling, building gazing and chatting. We admire the minimal concrete lines of the Tadao Ando-designed shopping complex La Collezione and pause for a slice of pineapple cake and oolong tea in the surreal wooden jigsaw puzzle interior of Sunny Hills, a more contemporary work by Kengo Kuma.

The average lifespan of a Tokyo building is just 26 years

We tiptoe beneath a dramatically pointy metal installation hanging from the ceiling (by artist Hiroshi Sugimoto) in Oak Omotesando before discussing the Japanese use of wood and paper versus Western cement and bricks while standing in the courtyard of Villa Moderna, a 1974 module-style apartment block with Lego-like housing cubes.

Our last stop, however, is a little different. A short train hop away in Daikanyama – an upmarket neighbourhood of quiet lanes, stylish cafés and independent fashion boutiques – I briefly find myself transported to a different world.

Kyu Asakura House is the former home of rice trader-turned politician Asakura TorajiroCredit:
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A wide gate leads to Kyu Asakura House, built in 1919 as the family home of rice trader-turned politician Asakura Torajiro. I wander along stone pathways past flowering winter trees before entering a traditional house with sliding paper screens, tatami mat rooms and soothing garden views.

Quiet, green, meditative and definitely un-urban, it’s the icing on the architectural cake in a city that excels at balancing the eclectic with the peaceful – and never fails to surprise.

The Japanese House: Architecture and Life after 1945 runs at the Barbican Art Gallery, London, until June 25.